“That’s because he grew up in Parayid Harbor. His mother runs—ran a pleasure house. He didn’t want to work there, so he went to sea. He pretended he was fourteen, which is the oldest most traders will take on new ship rats. But he was older. Though at that time he was short and skinny. He started getting his growth as soon as he got on board.”
“Do you know his family background?”
“No. His mother changes their name every few years.”
“He seems very well-spoken. More so than any pleasure house person I’ve ever met.”
“Oh, he is. Inda told me once he thinks Tau probably got more learning than he did, he just hides it. Except when he needs it. Maybe a different education. He doesn’t know Old Sartoran—you know, the ancient script where they write up and down, not sideways. But he sure knows the modern kind. His mother made him read lots of poems and plays so he’d learn to speak properly.” Jeje added with a quick grin, “If you’re warm for him, well—”
Tdor laughed, raising her hands. “Not the least. Oh, he’s a handsome fellow. Very. And kindly spoken as well. He reminds me of someone I grew up with. I wondered if the resemblance was merely in their, oh, their refined looks. If that kind of beauty creates similarity in features? Does that sound foolish?”
Another surprise. Midnight was nigh—how many more surprises lay ahead to hit her broadside on before the day-change bell? Jeje pulled her knees up under her chin and wrapped her arms around her legs. “Tell me more,” she said.
Chapter Nineteen
EVRED-HARVALDAR’S people took heart from the sight of their king moving tirelessly through the chaos of preparation. There was a lift to his chin, a sense of assurance in his manner, even joy: he did not seem to believe defeat was possible.
The news spreading outward that Evred-Harvaldar would ride himself to the kingdom’s greatest threat surprised no one. After all he had no real Harskialdna, though everyone hastened to give Barend-Dal credit for his valiant attempt to learn what he should have been taught over a lifetime. So he would ride, and beside him would be the infamous pirate-fighter Elgar the Fox, who really was a Marlovan after all.
When dawn bleached the torchlight, after a night of almost overwhelming effort, the great parade court was filled with ridings of men and horses, talking, shifting, checking and rechecking gear, their breath and the horses’ clouding and mingling.
In the adjacent academy parade court, the boys lined up, their high voices shrill, shivering with excitement more than the bitter cold to witness history in the making.
The window was a square of weak blue light when Hadand woke Tau. “Inda is riding out at sunup.” She gave him a lingering kiss. “Thank you.” Another. “Watch out for him, will you?”
“Inda? Or your Evred?” Tau asked. For between the tides of passion there had been the intense talk that sometimes happens at the prospect of imminent parting. Tau understood a lot more about the royal pair’s complicated relationship, which was built on love and respect. But the flame of ardency only burned in one.
“Watch out for them both,” Hadand said.
“I’ll do my best.”
He stopped in the men’s baths briefly, then returned to the guest chamber to discover Jeje waiting at the window, her gear bag over her shoulder. She gave him a searching gaze. “The king wasn’t in with her, was he?” She did not make it a question.
“No.” He packed in a few brief moves.
Now I’ve got it, she thought. Tau, who can have anyone he wants, likes to be needed. So he becomes what they need. I want him but I don’t need him like the others do, so with me he can just be Tau.
He straightened up, his head canted in question. She gave a short nod of satisfaction, his expression cleared, and they walked out together.
Halfway down the stairs they met Vedrid. “Indevan-Laef sent me to fetch you,” he said.
Fugue shrouded Evred’s mind during the predawn scramble as an endless stream of Runners converged on him, all with emergencies to be instantly resolved. He spoke automatically then randomly as his feet carried him steadily home.
Not the castle. Home—though never consciously defined as such—was the academy.
When his conscious mind brought him back to his surroundings he found himself facing rows of boys lined up, elbowing one another surreptitiously. Memory: the first day he’d come down from the castle to take his place among his fellow scrubs, all nudging, wriggling, staring around. Where he’d first seen Inda, looking lost.
“. . . before the signal to mount up?” Headmaster Gand was saying.
Gand. Waiting. For what?
The sudden return to consciousness struck Evred with a sickening conviction unlike anything he’d ever felt before. Not before battle, not after. Not when he came home to a crown after assassination and murder.
They were waiting for him to make a speech.
Speeches were traditional before important occasions. This departure was desperately important. Good speeches had been turned into songs, and sometimes even written down in the records, because they had successfully lifted men’s hearts, inspired their minds to courage and duty. But great speeches were made by great heroes. Not by ordinary second sons who found themselves yoked to kingship, before a battle that—
He snapped his attention away before so terrible, so treasonous a thought could finish itself, and swept his gaze round the court full of waiting faces.
Disoriented, unsettled, Evred hesitated, his manner appearing cold and remote to all who watched him so expectantly. The boys, thinking the king displeased, stopped fidgeting, and stood as straight as fence posts.
He loathed the idea of himself uttering pompous words about courage and duty.
But he had to speak.
And so he cleared his throat. The exhaustion he’d escaped all night pressed on his skull. He forced his voice to parade-ground pitch. “You know the orders. Boys under eighteen to remain, and men over fifty. This is traditional. If we do not hold the north against the Venn, it is your task to hold the royal city. And to carry on. Because if we lose the north, it means not one of us is coming back.” He drew a cold breath deep into his lungs, and his heart drummed. Don’t end with defeat. “We intend to come back in victory, knowing that you will make certain we have homes to come back to.”
Master Gand struck his fist to his chest, and the boys cried out, “Evred-Harvaldar!”
And, from behind, the men’s deeper voices shouted so loud the echoes bounced back from the high walls of the castle.
“Evred-Harvaldar Sigun!”
Evred drew breath. The nausea had transformed into giddiness; his nerves tingled with ice, then as abruptly flared sun-bright. He had nearly forgotten the oldest of traditions.
But Gand hadn’t. Here were two boys, appointed ahead of time, who blushingly brought forward two swords. And the senior boys now stepped forward with their hand drums at the ready.
Evred took the swords and swung them while restlessly scanning the crowd for Vedrid. It wasn’t right. He should not be alone. They had to see—
But here was Vedrid, and right behind him Inda, his coat brushed and neat, his hair smoothed up on his head, the silver owl clasp glinting. His jaw tightened at every step, but when he spied Evred he grinned.
Evred snapped his fingers for two more swords. The joy was back, at steel-forging heat. This time he did not have to make an effort to be heard. “And at my left will ride Indevan-Laef Algara-Vayir, who will command this battle, while my cousin Barend-Harskialdna conducts the defense of the shore.”
A susurrus of whispers rustled outward, and Gand himself came forward, offering two more swords, his own and another master’s, hilts out.
Inda gripped them, swung them once, twice, then he stilled, facing Evred.
“Hep!”
Their swords clashed together overhead, right hand against right, sending blue sparks arcing out. And thirty-six boys who would talk for the rest of their lives about this moment pounded the rolling, rumbling
tattoo of the war dance on hand drums, as Inda and Evred spun, clashed left against left. Whirled and clashed again and again. And then—together—threw the swords ringing onto the stones, north-south, east-west.
They stomped, whirled, and hopped, hands high, as the big boys drummed, the small boys clapped. Perfectly in sync, they danced through the complicated patterns that Inda had last performed two years ago on the deck of his flagship, with Fox Montredavan-An.
Then, as the boys shrilled the high, savage fox yip, the king and his commander walked side-by-side to the parade court, where the men waited, each by his horse.
Gand silenced the boys with a gesture.
“Mount up,” Evred said, turning his gaze upward at the castle—and yes, there was Hadand high on the highest tower. Tdor at her side, he was glad to see. All as it should be.
A great clattering of hooves, the jingling of chain mail and weapons, brought his attention back.
Exhilarated to almost an unbearable degree Evred indicated Inda ride by his side, and not behind and to the left in Shield Arm position. Every man who saw Evred’s smile, the rare, bright-eyed smile of unshadowed joy, took heart in his lack of fear, his assurance. Here was a young king who believed in victory!
Together they led the long columns through the old archway between the throne room and the great hall, where horses had not been ridden since the city had been conquered. They crossed the royal stable yard, and thence to the main street. On all the walls the old men had their hand drums out, and played the war charge. Evred gave the signal to gallop as the women lining the castle walls shouted, over and over, “Evred-Harvaldar! Evred-Harvaldar Sigun!”
The horses had been prancing, tails lifted, ears flicking. They plunged into the gallop, their riders easy on their backs, tear-shaped shields held aslant.
Tau rode behind Inda, Jeje and Signi at either side as Marlovan warriors closed around them. He saw at once the impulse behind the rumor of Marlovans on their flying horses: the dust-blurred line of galloping horsemen were like raptors with folded wings stooping to the kill.
So what does that make me? A duck? As he bounced and jounced in Inda’s wake, he was glad that he’d learned to stay on his beast’s back.
Civilians crowded along the city walls, drumming on family hand drums, clashing together pot lids and metal implements of every variety as children screeched and jumped. To them the day was exciting, and they danced about, some singing old war ballads, others fighting with sticks, Marlovan against the evil Venn.
Their elders cheered and drummed, but the faces of the oldest were grim.
On the highest castle tower, Hadand held a locket gripped tightly in one hand. At her side stood Tdor.
Neither looked away from that dust-obscured line fast diminishing over the open ground as Hadand said, “You know where they went right after Inda arrived?”
“No. Somewhere in the castle, surely. No, wait, didn’t they go out into the street?”
Hadand compressed her lips. Then, “They went to the academy.”
Tdor did not answer; she dared not answer.
Gradually she became aware that Hadand did not expect an answer, though her free hand sought Tdor’s, and gripped hard. Hadand shouted until she was hoarse, her women shouting with her. Tdor gazed westward until Inda had long vanished into the dust-shrouded mass on the plain.
Chapter Twenty
BETWEEN the weather and the distrust on both sides, the parley at Pirate Island took a very long time to arrange. The actual conversation, however, was absurdly short, screamed across railings into the howling, sleeting wind: the two leaders would meet, alone, on the dock at midday the next day.
The midday sun peeked between racing clouds at the sleet-washed harbor where, according to the agreement, Scarf stood alone in the middle of Five Points Parade.
Directly against the agreement (she had dispatched them even before her boat met Elgar the Fox’s midway between the two fleets) her people lay on the rooftops surrounding the parade.
They were all watching when a last gust of sleet from the departing storm briefly blew back the smoke from the burning remains of the last of the docked trade ships. She’d set these locals on fire partly out of revenge, but mostly to make certain her cheat force was screened from the northern side of the harbor where Elgar the Fox’s ships gathered. Two could play at that game. The damned thing was, the murk also screened Elgar’s approach.
A whisper ran round the hidden attack teams as a single silhouette strolled out of the smoke.
Another gust of wind, and there was Elgar the Fox, a tall, knife-lean figure dressed all in black sauntering through the thinning haze. The only color picked out by the chill slants of early spring light was the smoldering glint of the ruby hanging at one ear, the ruby worn by those who’d defeated the Brotherhood of Blood. His sword was strapped across his back and knife hilts gleamed faintly at the tops of his boots. Even to pirates he radiated menace.
Fox was only aware of his own sick sense of events moving beyond his control. He hated this plan. But he had agreed to it.
With his heartbeat drumming in his ears he lifted his voice slightly and said, “Well?”
And braced inwardly for arrows. Counting on others’ fear is not much of a shield. He hoped Mutt and the other young ones would learn that as his much-pierced corpse hit the boardwalk.
Fear stayed some hands, each pirate hoping someone else would shoot first, just in case Elgar had that Norsunder rift ready for anyone who attacked him. Curiosity stayed others’. It would mean something in the pirate world to sail under Elgar the Fox, who couldn’t be beaten. If he killed Scarf, well, it happens!
Falthum was crouched behind one of the barrels stacked in front of a cooperage. His aunt gave a jerk of her chin. He rose, and together they walked out. Already breaking the accord—but Elgar didn’t retreat, or protest, or even react. Unsettling.
He stopped just a few paces short of the edge of the dock, empty wagons parked at either side. Scarf had searched them herself.
She advanced slowly, drawing strength from her trusty crew lying on roofs all around the parade.
All right, then. “Elgar. Can you really command Norsunder?” she asked, when they were maybe twenty-five paces apart. She could see him clearly now: maybe mid-twenties, lean, stance easy but ready for action. Intelligent, that narrow, slant-eyed gaze, the sarcastic mouth.
Command Norsunder? he was thinking. Only two winters, and already the truth has warped.
So use it.
He lifted a shoulder. “As sure as my name is Elgar the Fox.”
“I think we take him now, just the two of us,” Falthum said, ready to lunge forward.
Scarf saw the Fox’s smile thin and warning prickled through her. He couldn’t have gotten anyone onto the docks to back him. She’d had her own watchers posted along the dock and shoreline before the two ships even met for the parley—a long-used plan. But.
She caught the back of Falthum’s coat. “Just a moment. Maybe we can work something out, here. No use in spilling more blood.” The idea was to make it clear that two on one put her in the command position.
Elgar, the shit, smiled just wide enough for her to see the edges of white teeth. “I don’t mind spilling blood.”
Falthum looked back at his aunt: what do we do now?
She didn’t like showing her strength so early, but it didn’t seem this Fox was going to cooperate. So . . . “Maybe spilling some of your own will change your mind.”
She drew her sword.
Fox had glanced up only once when approaching the dock. He knew he was being watched, and while one sweep of the area for enemies was to be expected, another would make the pirates suspect he was looking for something specific.
Over to you, Dasta, Gillor, he thought, flinging up one hand.
Scarf and Falthum charged him.
He had about a heartbeat to wonder if he was going to die stupidly with one arm in the air, then Dasta’s fight teams surged over the rooft
ops to take the pirates from behind, and Gillor led hers down from the back two streets just below the white chalk cliffs over which they’d spent two days trudging, out of sight of the pirates.
Scarf stared, as shocked as her crew. She had not expected anyone to come over the west side of the island, climbing mountains in the brunt of the storm.
That was her second mistake.
“Shoot!” Scarf yelled.
Fox whirled, sword blocking Falthum’s downward stroke. He grabbed Falthum’s thick wrist with his other hand, and pulled him round in front of him just as the hissing arrows struck.
Falthum cried out, stiffening. Fox dragged him backward the precious few steps he needed to vault behind the wagon he’d positioned himself near as another wave of arrows thudded into the old wood.
That would be the last wave of arrows from the rooftop pirates who were now busy fighting Dasta’s team.
Fox lunged out, knife and sword raised, as pirates came at him from all directions—Scarf, enraged past caring, in the lead.
Fox spared them a glance. The pirates still outnumbered his people. He whistled sharply. Those who’d reached the parade snapped into the threesomes he’d drilled into them and took on the overwhelming numbers, backs forming triangles.
That was when the locals stampeded from three of the side streets, waving either real or improvised weapons, and flung themselves at the pirates. The press intensified, sharpened steel cutting almost as much inadvertently as by directed blows, until Scarf and Fox emerged from the crowd and stood face-to-face.
Fox whipped up his sword’s point, then lowered it, stepped back, and smiled.
Scarf started a scornful question that was never asked because the consequences of her first mistake caught her squarely from behind: a hard wooden chair, swung with all her strength by Mistress Svanith.
The younger crew danced on the deck of the Death, surrounded by lamps and torches, as some clapped and sang. Mutt twirled on a barrelhead at the center, a bottle of wine in either hand as he kicked his legs up high to the tweetle of a flute and the shouts of his friends. Just below him Pil vig and Nugget sat side-by-side, Pilvig clapping and Nugget thumping a mug on the deck to mark out the beat.